


Sticks and Stones

by The_Bookkeeper



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Minor Injuries, Multi, Partial Nudity, References to self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Bookkeeper/pseuds/The_Bookkeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time Lords don't scar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticks and Stones

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully it’s somewhat evident, but the sections are in chronological order and set after Dalek, the Age of Steel, the Last of the Time Lords, the Doctor’s Daughter, Cold Blood, and the God Complex, respectively. 
> 
> (Full disclosure: I did notice while watching the God Complex that Matt Smith has a small scar near his hairline. However, there is also a moment in the Poison Sky when you can see David Tennant’s fillings, so I assume that we’re meant to suspend disbelief when it comes to the non-Gallifreyan physical characteristics of the actors. Though, if anyone has a different headcanon and wants to write a story about how the Doctor got that scar, I think it would be interesting.)

.

.

.

  “Are you okay?”

**.**

**.**

**.**

   Rose’s voice startles him, and he spins around like a frightened animal, old instincts which are never far from the surface dragged to the forefront of his mind by the events of the day. She jumps at his sudden movement, words spilling over themselves as she tries to explain, uncertain and so, so young.

   “It’s just, Van Statten – you were with him for a while, and he didn’t seem like the nicest sort of bloke, ‘specially with aliens, and he – he didn’t . . . _hurt_ you or anything, did he?”

   That’s not what she really meant and they both know it, but he’s willing to play along if she is.

   “Nah, ‘m fine,” he says with a bright smile, and she relaxes. She trusts him, this sweet, naïve, fragile little human. It makes him feel ill. “Made of tougher stuff than a human, me. He couldn’t have hurt me if he tried.”

   “Right,” she says, a smile tugging at her lips. Despite everything, she can still smile at him. Doesn’t she realize what he’s done? What he is? How can she not, after today? “Well, I’d better make sure Adam hasn’t fallen out of an airlock or anything.”

   The Doctor gives a derisive snort, she rolls her eyes at him, and then he’s left alone with his thoughts.

   His jumper chafes at the grid of radiation burns on his back. He’s not sorry for lying to Rose. She’d only have worried, and they’ll be gone by morning. He almost wishes they would last longer.

   A bit of pain is the least he deserves.

**.**

**.**

**.**

   Jackie’s voice cuts through the silence which hangs between them. He blinks at her, slightly suspicious, mostly just confused. Those are some of the last words he would have expected from her after bringing Rose home in tears, somewhere between “I’m sorry I ever struck your devastatingly handsome face” and “Marry me.”

   “. . . ‘course I am,” he says, a bit warily.

   “Oh, don’t be daft,” she says, but there’s a strange softness beneath her impatience. It’s almost as if she’s really concerned about him. “You look knackered. And that’s a nasty cut you’ve gotten yourself.”

   He glances down, and is mildly surprised to find that there is, indeed, a rather nasty gash on his left wrist, made visible by the way his position is tugging on his sleeves. He can’t remember when he got it, or how. Broken glass from the Tylers’ mansion, maybe.

   “Oh, that’s nothing. Looks worse than it is.” It’s the truth, more or less. It’s already scabbed over, and it’s not as if he’s in any danger of infection. It’s mostly the dry blood making it look so dramatic, which . . . is rather disgusting, now that he thinks of it. He makes a face. So much for this shirt.

   Jackie tuts at him, dragging him to his feet and ignoring his squawk of protest.

   “We’re going to clean it off, at least. And I’ve got some ointment, so you don’t end up with a scar. Surprised you’re not covered in them, living the way you do.”

   “Really, Jackie, it’s fine,” he argues half-heartedly while she forces him over to the kitchen sink and rolls up his sleeve.

   “You men are all the same,” she says in response. “One little case of the sniffles and you’re a right misery, but anything more serious and you’re all stiff upper lip. Could cut your bloody arm off and you’d still say you were fine.”

   “It’s just a flesh wound,” says the Doctor with a grin, unable to resist. He winces as she pulls his arm under the water, not from the pain but from the temperature. It’s probably pleasantly warm to her, but to him it’s nearly scalding. “I’ve done that, you know,” he continues, trying to distract himself from both the uncomfortable heat and the even more uncomfortable situation. “Lost an arm. Well, a hand. Grew it back, though, so I’m not sure that counts. That was on Christmas, with the Sycorax and all. Rose was there . . .”

   He trails off, his gaze drifting to the corridor off of which Rose is sleeping, having finally cried herself out on her mother’s shoulder. He almost lost her today. To the Cybermen, to the other Universe, to a fiery explosion of his own making . . . an explosion caused by the horrific end of hundreds of more-or-less sentient beings who were once innocent people. His doing. But then, it always is, isn’t it?

   “Doctor?”

   He blinks, realizing belatedly that the water has stopped running. Clean, his wound is little more than a thin red line. He estimates that it will be fully healed within a few hours.

   “Thank you, Jackie.” He tries to think of something clever and witty to add, but his thoughts are slow and sluggish. Maybe it’s lingering psychic trauma from the TARDIS’ abrupt exit and reentrance into his mind. Maybe it’s just that he hasn’t slept in nearly a fortnight.

   “Oh no you don’t,” says Jackie sharply, catching his arm as he tries to turn away. “You sit down, right now.”

   He sits.

   “Jackie, what –?”

   “You’re shaking.”

   He frowns, holding up a hand in front of his face. It is, indeed, trembling. He concentrates, and manages to make it still, but as soon as he stops focusing it starts up again.

   “Oh,” he says. “That’s not good.”

   Jackie’s eyes widen in alarm. Her mouth opens, undoubtedly preparing to pour forth a stream of high-pitched panic. He hastily attempts to diffuse the situation.

   “. . . but it’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure! Exhaustion, that’s all it is. I’ll just take a kip in the TARDIS; be right as rain by morning.”

   “If you’re sure,” says Jackie doubtfully.

   “Absolutely,” the Doctor assures her, springing to his feet and barely managing to remain there. He’s more tired than he thought.

   “Well, alright then. But don’t you go fainting and cracking your thick skull open.”

   “I’ll try to avoid it,” he agrees, and flees into the TARDIS before she can press him further.

   He really is exhausted, he realizes as he stumbles down the corridor and into his own room. He sinks onto his bed fully-clothed, barely bothering to kick off his shoes before he slumps over and lets sleep take him. Still, even his exhaustion can’t prevent him from dreaming, and his slumber is far from peaceful. One inferno blends with another, metallic screams mingling with telepathic ones, and through it all a blonde girl walks away from him, again and again and again . . . .

   He awakes with tears on his face, feeling more tired than before.

**.**

**.**

**.**

   The TARDIS’ hum is easily interpretable. Unfortunately, she isn’t quite as easy to brush off as the many companions who have uttered the same sentiment over the centuries, so he doesn’t even try. He doesn’t have the energy for any more reassurances. It’s all he can do to run the dermal regenerator over the gashes and bruises which mar his body, some half-healed, others fairly fresh.

   They’d have healed on their own soon enough. The Master would have been more than capable of marking him permanently, had he wished, but he didn’t. It probably didn’t even cross his mind. Time Lord relationships are never really about the physical, except as a means of accessing the emotions, the mind, the soul.

   The Doctor gives a burst of choking laughter which echoes in the emptiness of the medbay and is closer to a scream. Were. Time Lord relationships _were_. Not ‘are,’ never again. It’s just him, now. Again. Forever.

 The dermal regenerator slips from his hand and clatters to the floor.

 The Doctor curls in on himself, and sobs. 

**.**

**.**

**.**

   Donna answers her own question before he can.

   “No, of course you’re not. Sorry.” She sinks down next to him, pulling his hand into her lap and cradling it between both her own. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at her, and she doesn’t try to make him. She strokes her thumb along the back of his hand in a soothing, steady rhythm, and he lets out his breath in a shuddering sigh.

   It’s been a long time since anyone touched him so tenderly.

   “This is healing nicely,” she says at last, and he glances over automatically. The mark on the back of his hand is barely even visible anymore. It’s been nearly twelve hours since he got it.

   Since his daughter was born.

   He drops his head into his free hand with a shudder. Donna is suddenly much closer to him, her arm around his shoulders, her voice in his ear.

   “You’re going to be okay, Doctor. Shh, I’m right here. Oh, honey. It’ll be okay.”

   He doesn’t know how long he sits there, his face buried in his hand, stubbornly fighting the prickling at the back of his eyes which is not tears, definitely not tears. No more tears; he is done with tears, done with loss, done with pain. He’s just _done._

 Eventually, he manages to regain some semblance of control. Donna’s presence is warm and comforting, her expression soft and caring but devoid of the pity which he dreads. Maybe he will be okay after all.

  At the very least, he thinks he can bear to face the Universe again.

 As long as she’s with him.

**.**

**.**

**.**

   Amelia’s voice echoes down from the deck. The Doctor barely hears it as he stares with no small amount of fascination at the blood which is welling up from his palm. He hasn’t gotten hurt in this body before; not externally. A few bruises here, an excruciating decontamination there – it’s not quite the same as watching the thick scarlet liquid run down his (weirdly pale, now that he looks at it) wrist, soaking into his white sleeve and blossoming outward in a morbid parody of a flower –

   “ _Doctor!_ ”

   “Mm, what, yes?” he calls back absently, still watching the slow ruination (oh, good word, _ruination_ , he should use it more often) of his shirt. “You need something?”

   “No, but I think you might. Doctor, you’re _bleeding_.”

   “Really, Pond? I hadn’t noticed,” he replies, with just the slightest edge of sarcasm.

   “Well will you stop staring at it and _do_ something?” Amelia sounds less alarmed now and more annoyed, which is good. She shouldn’t be alarmed. It’s just a cut, after all. Barely more than a scratch, really. “I’m not climbing down there, you know. Don’t expect me to haul your great gangly giraffe body up here if you pass out.”

   “ _‘Giraffe body_ ’?” he repeats incredulously, clambering up to her level as quickly as he can manage one-handed.

   “Oh, please,” she scoffs. “Have you _seen_ you move? You’re all ‘what are these strange contraptions and how do you work them, oh dear, I hope that vase wasn’t important.’”

   She does what is apparently meant to be an impression of him. It’s very insulting, with much flailing of limbs.

   “Well, you’re one to talk, all – all short skirts and hair and – legs and – and – _Scottish_!”

   She raises her eyebrows at him.

   “Why, Doctor, have you been looking at my legs?”

   “I— _no!_ I just – shut up!” He realizes that he is, in fact, flailing, and stops, scowling at her. It’s her fault, probably. She’s making him self-conscious.

   She rolls her eyes, arms crossed, thoroughly unimpressed.

 “Get that cleaned up, will you? You’re dripping everywhere. And the next time you’re mucking about down there, be careful!” she calls after him down the corridor. He makes a gesture which she probably takes as a dismissive wave, but which is in fact very rude on several planets. Not that he intended to be rude (well, maybe a little), but it’s inordinately difficult to find a gesture which _isn’t_ rude on several planets. Humans (and humanoids) are constantly coming up with new ways to insult each other.

   The cut has already stopped bleeding by the time he gets to the medbay, but he runs the dermal regenerator over it anyway. No need to worry Amelia any further. He tucks the device away again, and his eyes catch on the scalpels which lie in a shining, silver row on the shelf. His hand drifts towards them . . .

   . . . and he jerks it back again, startled and alarmed at the thoughts which have managed to creep into his mind when he wasn’t looking. He abhors violence. It would be the epitome of hypocrisy to commit it against himself. Even if it is driving him mad, this grief which weighs on him, weighs on Amelia, which only he knows the origins of. Even if he does get so bored sometimes that he wants to crawl out of his skin. Even if he is numb and aching and desperate for some kind of release.

   He steps back and walks away, wringing his hands restlessly in front of him.

**.**

**.**

**.**

   River’s question is quickly followed by a hand on his cheek when he doesn’t answer.

   “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

   “Oh, nothing, nothing. Bit distracted, that’s all.”

   She peers into his face searchingly. She hasn’t known him for long, from her point of view, but she’s clever and learning quickly. She knows that he’s lying. She also knows that he doesn’t want to talk about, and won’t, not tonight. So she doesn’t press, doesn’t ask where the Ponds are, why the TARDIS feels so empty. He’s grateful for that.

   He’s also grateful for what she does instead, which is to spin him around, pin him against the console, and murmur in his ear,

   “I bet we can find a better distraction.”

   Later – after – she trails a hand along his chest, tracing his collar bones, the lines of his torso, the hem of his shorts. She sits up, and pushes him back when he tries to imitate her.

   “No, stay there,” she commands, her hands on his shoulders, stronger than any human. He could still break her grip without much trouble (he thinks), but he doesn’t try, instead lying back and giving her a lazy smile. He expects her to make some comment about enjoying the view, but she doesn’t. No flirtatious smirk finds its way onto her lips, and his drops away.

   “River –?”

   She swings her leg around to straddle him, pressing a finger to his lips.

   “Hush now,” she says, and in his memory a blinding light flares.

   He feels as though he’s been doused in freezing water. This time she does smirk, mistaking his shiver of horror for one of arousal (she’s learning quickly, but not _that_ quickly).

   “Let me look at you,” she says. He obeys, but the moment is lost. Her nearly-human heat is not enough to chase the chill from his bones. It seems to be catching, as well, because her smirk fades again. Her expression turns from teasing to wonder, but it’s a wonder tinged with sorrow, the way one might look when faced with – well, with the very last member of once-magnificent species. He swallows.

   “It’s all a mask, isn’t it?” she finally questions softly. “This body . . . it’s just a casing.”

   “Isn’t everyone’s?” he says, a flippant line to divert this inquiry which is getting uncomfortably close to something uncomfortably true.

   “No.” Her answer is quick and sure. “Humans age. Humans scar. They have frown lines and missing limbs and post-traumatic tremors. Everything’s so physical. You can see all their wounds. But you . . .”

   Her hand strokes down his chest again, his smooth, young, flawless chest. He catches her wrist – gently. She is, after all, partially human, and she has her own scars.

   “Who says I’m wounded?” His voice is soft, matching hers, but he’s wearing the smile that he saves for when he can feel every jagged edge within himself. He doesn’t know what it looks like, but he knows that it sends Rory ducking from the room with muttered excuses, makes Amy falter and frown. River just smiles a familiar, knowing smile, and looks, for an instant, like the walking enigma he fell in love with.

   Slowly, gently (but not nervously, not River), she draws her hand from his grip. Her fingertips ghost along his face, leaving trails of swiftly-cooling warmth in their wake. His eyes slide shut as she traces the delicate skin beneath them, and as her thumbs brush over his eyelids her voice drifts down through the dark.

   “No mask is perfect, Doctor. Not even yours.”

 


End file.
